Desperate and Lonely Souls
by AlexDayLover
Summary: Sherlock recieves a surprise visit after the Fall. BTW, in this story, Jim never died. Just clarification. First in the Flatmates series.


"Sherlock, we always seem to end up with a gun to someone's face."

Moriarty's voice seemed smooth and calm, even though it was Sherlock who held the gun this time. The criminal was weaponless and not backed by snipers, leaving Sherlock the advantage.

"Why did you come?" Sherlock demanded. "I could shoot you right now and nobody would know."

"Richard Brook still exists." Moriarty reminded him. "If I was found dead, it would be suspicious."

"I'm insulted that you think I'm incapable of hiding a body." Sherlock clicked the safety off, ready to fire should the need arise.

Moriarty grinned. "But you won't need to."

"And why is that?" Sherlock ground out the words, fury rising in his chest. Here was the man who had made him disappear from life, who had made him decieve his friend and colleages for so long, and he had a clear shot. Moriarty had better hope he could use that silver tongue of his right now, before Sherlock cut it out.

"Because I have a proposition for you. Daddy loves games!" Moriarty grinned. Sherlock gnashed his teeth.

"A proposition? You walk into MY hideout and expect me to listen to you, when I have a gun and YOU do not, when YOU are the entire reason I'm stuck here? You must be mad or incredibly sure of yourself, and neither suits you very well in this scenario." Sherlock practically spat.

Moriarty looked at him patiently. "You'll appreciate this deal. I won't cause trouble. I won't kill people. I won't commit crimes. If you let me stay with you."

Sherlock lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. "Why?" He chose his question carefully, after considering the deal.

Moriarty shrugged. "I've done nearly everything. I broke into the best banks and governments, I've killed lords and ladies and royalty, I've brought kingdoms to their knees, but I've still failed to kill you, Sherlock. Just you. You were so entertaining, and then you had the nerve to stand in my way. Not many can do that, inspire me to arrange a whole game just for them. And then even cheat at a game I practically invented. Death." He spat the last word, his eyes fiery. "And I thought to myself, "Gee! That Sherlock Holmes really has himself a mind! Perhaps he could provide more than a petty few months of entertainment. Maybe, he could provide a lifetime of intrigue." And so I thought about it more, and the plan just sort of… developed itself."

"Plan?" Sherlock was struggling not to shoot Moriarty, but the man's offer had made him curious, which was exactly what he hadn't wanted to happen.

"I wreak havoc on the innocent, Sherlock, because there's nothing else to do. And people make the best sounds!" Moriarty lit up. "They cry and they scream and they beg, and some even curse me, before I knock them senseless. But that only lasts so long before it grows predictable. You, Sherlock, are rarely boring even WHEN you're predictable."

"When is predictable ever not boring?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Moriarty paused. "Like… like when you're watching fireworks. You know exactly what's going to happen when they're launched, but that doesn't make the explosions any less magical or amazing."

Sherlock nodded. "So you promise to give up crime… in exchange for me?"

"That's basically it." Moriarty confirmed.

"I don't like that deal." Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. "I'd much rather have you dead, then the crime would stop anyway and I'll be rid if you."

"But I could be fun, Sherlock!" Moriarty tried to persuade him. "I could listen to you, and I could understand your deductions. You wouldn't have to take precious time explaining instructions because I would already know! We share a genius, you and I! We complete each other."

"I work pretty well on my own." Sherlock held the gun at point. "Besides, how would I know whether to trust you'll keep your word?"

"You won't!" Moriarty grinned. "You'll just have to have faith."

"Faith in a man who's made his fortune by lies, deceit, and murder?" Sherlock scoffed.

"In effect, yes." Moriarty gently pushed the gun away. "Can we please put that thing down?"

Sherlock obliged, setting the gun on the ground. When he straightened, he observed the man.

Stray threads off his jacket. That implies that it's quite old, but it didn't fit him the way an article of clothing should if one had been wearing it long. It was second-hand. The same with his pants. Denim was faded. Grass stains, very faint.

His shirt was clean, no wrinkles. He had ironed it himself. He wanted to make an impression, but the second hand clothes suggest he hadn't had many resources so he made do.

His shoes were slightly muddy. It had rained two days ago and the grass was still slightly damp. Sherlock saw small flecks of green peeking out from under his soles.

Moriarty's hands. They were shaking slightly, almost imperceptibly. He had been using.

Correction. He had used, once. Decided it was too dangerous to his brain. That he valued his sanity more than he ached to stop being bored. More than Sherlock could do. Now Moriarty kept better care of himself, he seemed well fed and not at all unhealthy. But his face, as much as he put on a smile and a chuckle, Sherlock could detect lines of pain. Moriarty had been on his own, just like Sherlock, and he had had nothing to do. As Richard Brook, the media was likely keeping his name in mind. The large crime that he no doubt wanted to pull would have been tacked to him, probably as a joke, then discovered to be really his doing. It would have been impossible for him to wreak havoc.

Moriarty stood still, aware that Sherlock was examining every detail of his appearance. He knew that Sherlock would come to a conclusion soon.

Sherlock was close. Moriarty was desperate, he realized. Desperate for company. So much that he would swallow his pride and come to Sherlock. He would offer himself to Sherlock, just so that he would have someone close. He didn't like being alone.

Richard Brook voiced television shows. He was a friendly person. Moriarty directed murders and felonies. He was a person to be feared, to not speak the name. But Jim, Jim was a social butterfly. He thrived when he was in a crowd. He was a show-off. He was a lovable sod who would do anything for attention, much like a needy puppy.

It was Jim that stood before him now, silently letting Sherlock ponder the situation.

Sherlock came to a decision. "If I accept this deal, what would happen?"

Jim smiled, a bit hesitantly. "I would move in with you. We would be flatmates. We would be friends. And I would stop messing with the government and causing your brother to get fat out of worry. And I suppose I would even stop murdering babies and homeless people."

"Glad to hear it." Sherlock said flatly. Without shifting his tone of voice, he turned around and said, "I like the homeless. So you'll go get your things and meet me here in an hour. I have to go grocery shopping, all that's in the fridge are a few toes and I think a person's hand. If you have tea, bring it. I'll see you then." He grabbed his coat and scarf, walking past Jim and leaving him alone in the flat.

Jim didn't move for a second, still collecting his thoughts. For a genius, he felt rather stupid. He hadn't known, hadn't even had a clue, of what Sherlock's answer would be. By all rights, he should be lying on the floor with a bullet in his brain right now. But he wasn't.

He smiled, a small, genuine smile. Sherlock did have a heart. Or perhaps he, like Jim, was just sick of being alone and bored. The reason didn't matter. Jim had a friend.

He went back to his rented flat. Gathering his clothes and the spare guns he always kept with him, he left a note for the landlord and gently shut the door.

Taking a cab back to Sherlock's flat, he used the key that he swiped from Sherlock's pocket as he had walked past. Undoubtedly, Sherlock had another because he suspected that Jim would take one. Setting his bag on the floor, he surveyed the space.

A couch, several chairs. A TV and a laptop, a table and three bookshelves full of books. Walking into the kitchen, he looked at the mess that was the kitchen counter. It was covered with lab equipment, ingredients and several reacting agents that Jim thought must be for experiments. Reaching out and taking an apple from a bowl of fruit sitting atop the microwave, he continued his walkthrough.

Two bedrooms. One was locked, the other wasn't even touched. He supposed that he would take the empty one. There was a simple bed and desk, a dresser and closet. Nothing else.

Going back to the main area, he collected his bag and set it in his room. Unpacking, he put everything where he wanted it. When he finished, he heard Sherlock come home.

"Howdy, partner." Jim called to the man as he came out of the spare bedroom. Sherlock was carrying grocery bags.

"Hello, Jim." He set the bags in the kitchen. "I hope you brought tea."

"I did indeed." Jim fetched it. Setting the kettle to boil, the two men sat in the main area and looked at each other, Sherlock leveled and a bit suspicious, and Jim looking, for all accounts, not unlike the Mad Hatter.

"So now what?" Sherlock asked. Jim shrugged.

"What were you doing before I arrived?"

"Studying the patterns of mold that grow when you drip goat milk on two month old bread." Sherlock answered.

They were silent for a bit, then Jim asked, "Can I help?"

**Well, that's the first part in my Flatmates Series. I didn't like the way I ended it, so I decided to make more to it. Keep your eyes out, there will be sequels. Possibly a prequel, if you guys like the series. DFTBA, Blair.**


End file.
